The Judas Strain (Page 65)

Lisa turned and crossed to the bedroom—then stumbled back a step, startled.

Dr. Devesh Patanjali stood at the foot of the bed, hands behind his back. Ahead, Susan lay sprawled on the bed, under the isolation tent, eyes closed, breathing evenly.

Devesh was not supposed to be here.

"Ah," he said without turning, "Dr. Cummings, how is our patient doing?"

8:17 P.M.

The elevator doors chimed open onto the level of the Presidential Suite. Monk, tired and irritable, strode out into the hall. He had a bundle of blankets and a pillow.

He crossed toward the pair of guards posted by the double doors.

One sat on a chair, the other straightened from where he was leaning against the wall.

"Go," Monk said crisply into his radio’s microphone.

It was his signal.

A muffled gunshot rang out from behind the suite’s door as Ryder took out the man posted inside.

Startled, the guard who’d been standing by the wall swung to the door.

Monk was on him immediately. He swung up both arms, a pistol in each hand, one tucked into a pillow, the other bundled in the blanket. He shoved the pillow against the man’s back and pulled the trigger, taking out his spine. As the guard dropped, he fired a second round into the man’s head. Before the body even hit the ground, Monk turned to the seated man, lifting the blanket-wrapped pistol. He pulled the trigger. . . twice.

8:19 P.M.

Lisa entered the bedroom.

"Dr. Patanjali, I’m glad you’re here," she said, swallowing the gall that came with the lie. She needed Devesh out of here. She had told Monk only two orderlies would be here.

Devesh turned to her.

Lisa swiped some loose hair over her ear, feigning exhaustion as her heart pounded. "I had come to get some test results on a CSF tap 1 performed earlier. But.. ." She waved to the computer. "The power surge knocked out the CPU. I was hoping to review the results before 1 went to bed."

"Why didn’t you order one of the men to fetch them from Dr. Pollum’s lab?"

"No one’s there. I was hoping you might expedite matters."

Devesh sighed. "Certainly. 1 was just heading over to my room for the night. I’ll call down and have Pollum send you a hard copy."

"Thank you."

Devesh headed away, but he stopped at the threshold and turned back to her.

Lisa tensed.

"You looked quite handsome at the cocktail party. Truly radiant."

Lisa kept her face impassive by sheer force of will. "Th-thank you."

Then he was gone.

Shaken a bit, Lisa hurried over to Susan. Leaning down, Lisa whispered in her ear. "I’m going to begin unhooking you from everything. We’re getting out of here."

Susan nodded. Her lips moved, exhaling a soft "thank you."

As Lisa set to work on the IV catheter, she noted the tear tracks leaking from the outer corner of Susan’s eyes to her pillow. Earlier, Lisa had quietly explained about the fate of the woman’s husband. Lisa had read his autopsy reports, courtesy of Devesh.

Lisa squeezed the woman’s shoulder.

Luckily, Devesh had not noted her glowing tears.

8:25 p.m.

Monk hurried across the outside starboard deck, hunched against the wind-lashed rain. Only a few pools of light spilled to the darkened deck. Black clouds whipped and roiled above the giant net woven across the top of the island. Flashes of lightning glowed like a distant war zone. The rumble of thunder was almost constant.

After his first talk with Lisa, Monk had scouted the proper section of deck and prepared everything he needed. But he hadn’t had time to ready a second sling. He’d simply have to haul the women up one at a time.

To accomplish that quickly, Monk needed more muscle.

Ryder pounded behind him, dressed in local rags like Monk.

Gassing up the billionaire’s boat would have to wait.

"This way!" Monk yelled above the drench of rain and gusts of wind.

A deck chair skittered past him. The winds were picking up. They needed to be out of here in the next hour to escape the worst brunt of the coming typhoon.

Overhead, the island’s woven roof shook and rattled.

Monk reached the section of deck where he had rigged a rope and fireman’s sling, stolen from out of the ship’s emergency rescue gear.

Monk pointed. "Haul it to the rail!" he hollered as he leaned over the edge.

He searched below. The curve of the ship’s hull made it hard to be certain, but two levels below him should be the balcony to the cabin where Lisa had been tending her patient. It was the point of egress for this op.

Farther below, the dark lagoon reflected the ship’s few lights, rippling gently, sheltered from the worst of the wind by the high volcanic walls. As Monk turned to Ryder, he noted some flashes of light in the water. Not reflections, something deeper. Bright blues and crimson fire.

What the hell?

A crackle of lightning shattered overhead, striking the roof net, lighting up the lagoon. Monk ducked from the thunder. Where the lightning struck, sparkling blue energies shattered outward along the steel bracings of the net, leaving momentary dances of St. Elmo’s fire. The entire structure must be grounded, acting like a massive lightning rod.

Ryder joined him at the rail. He had the coil of rope over his shoulder and tossed the sling over the rail. He lowered it with the experience of a dock lineman. The sling reached the level of the balcony, swinging in the blustering wind.

"I’ll go down," Monk yelled in his ear. "Secure the cabin. Then haul ass back up here. The two of us will have to pull the woman up."

Ryder nodded. He had already heard the plan. Monk had repeated it, just to give the man one last chance to volunteer to go down instead.

Ryder didn’t.

Smart man. No wonder he’s a billionaire.

Monk grabbed the line, hauled himself over the rail, hooked his leg, and swung out on the wet rope. Controlling his descent with his prosthetic hand, he zipped down the rope until his feet hit the sling.

He faced the open balcony, swinging in the wind. The drapes were half closed, but the bright light inside revealed Lisa. A bear of a man had her pressed against the balcony doors, hand around her neck, lifted up on her toes.

Oh, this was already going well.

8:32 P.M.

Lisa hung from Tweedledee’s arm, his hand clenched around her neck. His nose was in her face, spittle flew as he yelled.

"What the f**k were you doing with the IV lines, bitch?" The last word was spat at her in heavily accented English.

What Lisa had been doing was removing all of Susan’s catheters—urinary, intravenous, her central line—readying her to leave as quickly as possible. Unfortunately, the orderlies’ movie had ended, and Dee had gone to relieve himself, passing close enough to sense something was amiss.